


Watch Me, Watch You

by Insatiable_Fox



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Bottom Harry Potter, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, M/M, Male Slash, Masturbation, POV Second Person, Rimming, Top Draco Malfoy, Twincest, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-27
Updated: 2019-11-27
Packaged: 2021-02-26 15:53:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,349
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21580759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insatiable_Fox/pseuds/Insatiable_Fox
Summary: Behind closed doors, a performance is en-play. A show for the wanting, the needy, the depraved.The wizarding world is oblivious it's all a masquerade.AKA Harry and Draco have sexy sex whilst people watch ft. hints of Deep™.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 6
Kudos: 112





	Watch Me, Watch You

**Author's Note:**

> What can I say? Sometimes you just need a good, dirty, sex scene. With touches of Deep™ because I like my boys fucked-up. 
> 
> All mistakes (accidental or purposeful) are my own. My life-long beta Maddison is currently far too busy trying not to stab members of the council, and I'm far too impatient to wait any longer.

A voice shatters the tension. "Is he ready?" 

You ignore whichever man has spoken, choosing instead to slide your tongue once more into the slick, gaping hole in front of you, sucking lightly at the puffed ring. Harry exhales loudly, debased groan echoing in the taut silence; you hear a twin gasp, muffled, from one of your voyeurs.

"Yeah. He's ready." Affirmation, when you eventually draw yourself back from him, to the shadowed faces that line the room, although the words are more for Harry than them. Warning. Promise. Your voice is raw and husky, a decibel lower than usual, desire and need and urgency, all unmistakable in your tone. You don't bother to conceal it. Not when he's like this. Utterly wanton - hands and knees red and bruising to the floor, body near quivering from the attack your mouth and fingers have ravaged. Blind they are, sheep. Harry is the only one you've ever seen. 

Your cock is hard and flushed. You've drawn this torturous prelude out far longer than usual. Wanting Harry begging for it; wanting your audience desperate themselves. It's all part of the game. You, Harry, on display for whoever has found their way to the room that night. Oh, you enjoy it - there's no doubt about that. Revel in the eyes fixed on your every movement, the hitched intakes of breath, the slap of palms against cocks, the knowledge that it's you and him they're jerking off to. That's where it ends for you, however. Flattered ego and narcissistic delight, yet nothing further profound. But _Harry_ \- it is more than mere amusement to him. It's necessity.

You do not let your audience know this, however, ever the master of masks. Harry is yours to take care of. And whilst you may parade his body to the masses which beg, you will never share the secrets of his inner sanctum. Reveal even a hint the facade of Boy Who Lived is nothing more than that. Another homogeneous guise the public accept yet don't truly see. 

Harry's trembling, pressing his arse back needily against your pelvis, whimpering when the leaking head of your cock brushes his entrance, and you know you cannot prolong _this_ , _it_ , much longer. Still. You force your gaze to settle on the tense crowd, ensuring their enthrallment. Meeting each set of eyes in turn and unable to suppress a shiver at what stares back:

Blaise Zabini is sat alone, rear to the ground and back against the wall, legs stretched straight before him. His fly is tented, bottom lip caught between perfect, white teeth. Gaze hooded, he answers your attention with a slight shudder, pushing the heel of his hand firmly to his crotch. 

George Weasely has claimed a couch. He reclines almost regally, one arm flung over the side, the other - _Jesus fuck_ \- carding through Fred's hair as the other twin sucks his brother off. You can hear Fred from here. Whimpered groans dampened by the obstacle of cock, a huff of breath exhaled. It's a mesmerising sight: identical bodies stripped, uncaring of company. You watch Fred. Fred watches George. George watches you. A hedonistic cycle you'd abandon yourself to in a heartbeat, if you could ever bring yourself to leave Harry's side. 

Lee Jordan is slouched against the side of the couch the twins have claimed. Clad only in a pair of jocks, clothes lying discarded to the floor, the low light catches the slight sheen of sweat covering his chest, throwing tan skin into relief. His hand is slid beneath his pants, waistband stretched over wrist, fingers loosely skimming trapped hardness. 

Harry's low whine brings your attention back to him. Spine dipped, arse raised; beautifully, irresistibly, shameless. You slide your hands down oiled thighs, stroke the sensitive flesh on the inner side, palm his balls before tugging the wrinkled skin. His moan is guttural and you dig your fingers into the rounded globes of his arse cheeks, thumbs either side of his crack. Pulling him open, exposing him, revealing the quivering hole of musk and debauchery for all to see.

Harry shudders. He loves this, _needs this_ , on display and malleable to your whim. You love this, _get off on this_ , the control he so willingly sacrifices fueling your ego and assuring your possession.

Your hand is on your cock, spreading oil down the length. Superfluous: Harry's so loose you could fit four dicks up his arse, like the tail of a peacock. Still, it's the gesture that matters. Presage for your quivering audience that the principle attraction is about to commence.

You pause. Tip of your dick resting at his entrance, fingers holding his hips still. Let the suspense fill, apprehension of the room rolling headily over your skin.

Another moment, savour the taut scent of anticipation.

Then you snap your hips forward, entering the sweet clench of Harry in one single stroke, hitting home as a hedonistic cry drawn forcibly from between his gritted teeth rings in your ears. 

You fuck him how he wants to be fucked: all wicked abandonment and sybaritic desire, no thought given to the immoral vulgarity of the show you preform for the willing. You fuck him like wildfire: burning brutality and all-consuming devastation, a conflagration of need and want and domination that incinerates inhibition, liberation the sole survivor. He's intoxicating, this version of himself Harry wears for these nights. A costume of submission, a persona who demands to surrender; far cry from the warrior of day. 

Harry clenches around you, hands slipping on the slick floor, and you wrap an arm around his waist, hauling him back; keeping him close. Head hung, bowed to the floor as if in prayer, his expletives to the air shatter his unintentional mimicry of reverential servitude. As they should. You're the only god whose name is allowed to fall from bitten lips. 

He's close. You can feel it, sense it, _know it_ in the body as familiar as your own. You tilt your hips up, stifling your own grunt as you inch impossibly deeper into intoxicating _hotwetslick_ , making sure you graze the sensitive bundle of nerves with every thrust. 

There. Right there, overwhelming and everywhere; you're the only thing Harry feels. Knows. Needs. Wants. 

With a strangled curse that has your balls drawing tight, Harry shudders and spills his climax to the floor. His untouched cock smears sweat and fluids on the ground as he convulses on your length, whimpers caught between red lips dragging you to the cusp of your own culmination. 

His coming breaks the strain of your audience. Unintentionally, unthinking, you seek out pale blue and orange hair, knowing one or the other will be breaking - squandering your will to the perverse need to witness twin uncome by twin. He's looking right at you, connect in a second. You watch, helplessly lost in the feeling of Harry and the sight of George, as he stiffens, hands tangled in Fred's hair, and empties himself into his twin's mouth. 

Fuck. 

Harry wines softly, shifts restlessly beneath you, and you're lost. You lose yourself to the cries of the crowd, to the mewl and huff of Harry's comedown, to the drag and clench and shudder and hardness of the naked body withering under your palms. You come with a hiss, hands gripping tight enough to bruise, mind going blank as your orgasm curls around your spine and explodes behind flickering eyelids, forehead falling to land in the cooling damp skin between Harry's shoulders as you receded from nirvana back into your body. 

The air is heavy with the scent of come and sweat, languid with heat and contentment, the shuddering of breath being caught a cacophony that murmurers, potent, in your ears. 

They'll leave soon. Content and blissed out, witnesses to the show that is Draco and Harry: unbound. Addicts now, to the slide and push and hushed magic found only behind closed doors of the uninhibited deviant. Of the ones who play with no concern to the rules of society. Play, unknowingly to their audience, for the survival of their saviour 

They'll be back. 


End file.
